


Soft Like Sunday

by EchoVanity



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-15 02:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4589535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EchoVanity/pseuds/EchoVanity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In your arms, he is soft as a Sunday. And maybe one day, you'll be able to keep him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soft Like Sunday

In your arms, he is soft as a Sunday, his lips warm and pliant against yours, his fingertips brushing your thigh, barley more than a whisper. Then slowly, increasing pressure. Then hard, clinging, bruising, desperate. He bites your lips, punishing, grips your hip so tightly you know you’ll wear his fingerprints for a week. Then soft, again, sorry, as though he is the worshipper, defacing the god. As though his is the apology needed, when you’re the sinner, wearing your sins like a shroud.

When he pulls away to catch his breath, your mouth follows and he laughs, quietly. He melts back into your touch and you forgive him everything he’s ever done, everything he ever will do, because in this moment he is yours and you are his and that is everything. In this moment he is always, yours.

Your hands grip each other tightly, like last chances and no regrets. You twine together, close as it’s possible to get. You do not speak. You do not want his words, or your own. When he opens his mouth, when his brilliant, hazy eyes try to form questions, you kiss him into silence, and he lets you. He always lets you.

It is hours, or minutes, or days, or a decade. You map his skin with your tongue, wanting to memorise his craters and his contours, his bones and his scars. You want to relearn each freckle in the constellation on his back, you want to remember the taste of every memory ever written on his skin. You want to know him, now, always, in case this really is the final chance. His breath hitches as you caress his inner thigh, his back arches as you swallow him. When you trace the individual knobs of his spine with your tongue, he says your name like a prayer.

You had never felt holy till he held you.

When it is over, and the sweat has cooled, the pleasure faded to a warm glow, you turn and face him. His eyes are sleepy, sad and smiling, so very green without his glasses.  Too open, too honest. There’s a look in his eyes like this time, you are everything he ever could’ve hoped for, everything he ever thought you could be and more.

He tries to speak, and you want to let him, but his words have always carried too much weight, and even now, you are afraid of all he could do to you. So you kiss him, hold him, promise words can wait until the morning, till the sun can hide the truth.  Darkness is too revealing. You’re a snake in the shadows, and the night has none to spare.

When he sleeps, you watch his dreams echo in his smile. When he reaches out a hand, you hold him, like this time you won’t let go. As the inky blackness turns to soft grey, you pretend like this is forever. Like this time you will wake in his arms, see a sunrise with him beside you, drink coffee at a kitchen table, exchanging sleepy smiles. Like you haven’t broken his heart a thousand sunrises before. Like he won’t let you do it all again, every time, every night he lets you back in, in his bed and under his skin. Like he is yours for the keeping, and not an idol you can tarnish with a thought.

He is not yours to keep, and if you could let you speak, let him listen, you would tell him. How there are snakes that writhe in your veins, and a Mark that poisons your soul, and thoughts in your head that won’t let you sleep, and never, ever let you stay. Even if you wanted to. You want to-

But for all the decades passed, you are a snake and never a brave one, and selfishly, you do not want words when you could have him. Pliant and always willing, always sure this time you’ll stay.

Soft as a Sunday in your arms, yours for the night, almost for always.


End file.
